


Mycroft has friends?

by Nocturnal_Silver_Wolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Brother's Best Friend, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Jumpers, Love Confessions, M/M, Nerd!Sherlock, Pining, Science Experiments, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Teenlock, rugby!john, shy!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nocturnal_Silver_Wolf/pseuds/Nocturnal_Silver_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hi! I’m John, Mycroft’s friend – well, project partner.” The edges of his lips went up, almost as if laughing at an inside joke. “You’re Sherlock? I’ve heard a lot about you.” </p>
<p>Or when Sherlock meets Mycroft’s friend<br/>(An older brother’s best friend trope)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft has friends?

Sherlock stomped up the stairs, fuming as he flung the door open. Mycroft had told on him again to mummy. She had been furious to find that Sherlock had been out collecting dirt samples for his experiments, when he should have been in that tediously boring maths class.  
  
They were imbeciles – all of them. Hanging onto the teacher’s word, spoon fed information, unable to think for themselves. All they cared about were exams, grades and the lot. Half the time, they were probably thinking about what they’d like to have for lunch.  
  
He scoffed.  
  
“Mycroft, you stupid, fat, annoying git. Telling on me–” Sherlock paused, finding himself facing not Mycroft, but a golden haired boy cocking his head curiously at him. Sherlock gaped, unused to finding other people in his brother’s room. In fact, apart from mummy and daddy, and the maids around the house, he had never seen, dare he think it, Mycroft’s friends.  
  
The boy smiled, putting forward his hand for a handshake. Sherlock, lost for words took it, surprised to find that the boy’s hands were warm and callused.  
  
“Hi! I’m John, Mycroft’s friend – well, project partner.” The edges of his lips went up, almost as if laughing at an inside joke. “You’re Sherlock? I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
  
Sherlock carried on staring at John. He was unable to comprehend the notion of Mycroft having friends. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. In his brother’s words: they were living in a world of goldfish. It seemed that his brother had decided to befriend one of them.  
  
John patiently waited for Sherlock to reply. He leaned back, settling into his chair as he put down the pen that he had been flipping.  
  
It took several seconds before Sherlock’s synapses were firing away again – this time in overdrive.  
  
“Same year as Mycroft obviously, since you’re doing a project together. It’s probably… economics class, judging from what’s written in your notebook.”  
  
At those words, John glanced down at his notebook sitting innocently in his lap. Sherlock’s eyes had flickered down for a second, taking in the graphs and equations easily, although they were upside down.  
  
“Mycroft was probably stuck without a partner - stupid git – and since you’re nice enough, you volunteered to work with him. There’s also the added bonus that he knows most of the content, as you don’t have that much time to spend on it, because…” Sherlock took note of the battered, muddy sport shoes John was wearing. “…you’re the rugby captain.”  
  
It was then that Sherlock remembered why John looked vaguely familiar. He sat with the rest of the rugby team in the refectory at school. Sherlock hadn’t taken much notice of them – idiots, all of them. Though, from what he could tell, John seemed relatively hardworking – he had to be, if he was to put up with Mycroft for a group project.  
  
“Yeah,” John gave Sherlock a self-depreciative grin, sheepishly scratching his head. “Mycroft is really interesting though. He knows a lot about the economics and politics behind the headlines. It’s actually rather enlightening.”  
  
Sherlock reared back, half wondering if he had heard right, and half horrified at the fact anybody would use the adjective of interesting to call Mycroft.  
  
“Mycroft’s thinking of dabbling in politics later – of course he’d be caught up on the current news.” Sherlock rolled his eyes internally. Mycroft’s target was probably to take over the British government.  
  
“Oh,” John nodded, sensing that Sherlock didn’t particularly get along with his brother. “He went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Why were you looking for him?”  
  
“Mycroft told on me.” Sherlock crossed his hands, pouting as if a petulant child. “Now mummy’s angry at me, and I’m grounded.”  
   
John raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Were you doing anything you shouldn’t have been doing?”  
  
“Collecting soil samples. I’m trying to map London by examining the composition of soil in different areas.”  
  
“That sounds interesting.” John put his notebook and pen on the table beside him, leaning forward to listen to Sherlock.  
  
“Really?” Sherlock couldn’t help asking incredulously. No one had ever been appreciative of his work – only mummy and Mycroft, and mummy sometimes had that slightly patronising look as he explained the mechanics behind his experiments. Mycroft wasn’t any better, and deemed his experiments too childish and immature to be of any interest.  
  
“Do you want to take a look?” Sherlock asked, a little too eager. It’d be fun to have someone to collect soil samples with, even if he’d probably have to do all the explaining.  
  
“I’d love to.”  
  


***

 

Sherlock lay on his bed, head slightly propped up by the pillow beneath it, hands steepled under his chin. He was contemplating on his next experiment, and wondering when John would arrive.  
  
After that day, John had come over to check on Sherlock every time he was over for the project. Sherlock would show John his latest experiments, enthusiastically pointing out the salient points, or asking John his opinion on anomalies. They would come up with hypothesis together, and often, John would collect samples with Sherlock, assisting with the experiment. It was nice to have someone to talk to, rather than talking aloud to nothing but thin air.  
  
Other times, the two of the would be hunched over an experiment when Mycroft would barge in, demanding that John finish their project. Sherlock’s jaw would clench, seething inside, though outwardly he was deadpan, even understanding that John had to work.  
  
At the sound of the doorbell, Sherlock’s eyes opened, hands withdrawing from their positions underneath his chin. John had arrived.  
  
Sherlock swung his feet over the side of the bed, gracefully standing up and gliding towards his experiments. He ruffled his hair, and took position by the microscope, bending over and peering through it.  
  
A thousand heartbeats later, Sherlock still did not hear the familiar thumping of feet up the stairs, as John came up by Sherlock’s room. John was once again working with Mycroft then. He glared mutinously at the petri dishes neatly lined up and ordered, waiting to be examined by the two of them.  
  
John was going to spend the rest of time working with Mycroft then – Sherlock meticulously recorded the times that John had come over, when and what he did. If John went to work with Mycroft first before visiting Sherlock, there was undoubtedly more time spent working with Mycroft as opposed to with Sherlock. He had graphed out the results, coming out with a ridiculously complex algorithm, predicting his times with John.  
  
Sherlock slipped down the stairs, bare feet going down each step toe first to lessen the impact of the noise. He stealthily weaved past the various rooms: function rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms, the library.  
  
Muffled voices came from a shelf at the far left. Sherlock froze, head slowly turning to the source. He knew that a cosy room was snug at that corner, comfy chairs and desks for work and research. Sherlock took the long way around, sliding past the ceiling-high bookshelves filled with row upon row of books. He rubbed his nose, sniffing at the musty books, undisturbed from sleep.  
  
As he closed in on the target, the hem of his sleeve was caught on one of the dim lamps sitting on a table. He felt the whoosh of air as the lamp embarked on its journey to the floor, and whipped around, thrusting both his hands out to catch it. Thankfully he caught it, an inch above the ground, heart pounding with relief.  
  
He carefully placed it back on the table, careful not to make any noise. He turned back, shuffling up to the door. There was a crack at the door, enabling him a partial view of the room. John’s back, sandy hair soft and tousled, faced him, and part of Mycroft’s legs.  
  
“…Supposed to read the entire treaty?” John was asking Mycroft incredulously.  
  
“It deals with the free movement of goods. The treaty and several cases…,” Sherlock heard a tap of a pen against the book. “…Establish what the member states must do to enable this.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Politics again – it was probably some power play between countries. How tedious.  
  
Instead, he focussed more on John. He watched as John leaned forward to better hear Mycroft, Sherlock’s heart twingeing. John’s hair was getting long, and kept flopping onto his face. He would periodically brush it back, or shake his head to get rid of the tuft of hair blocking his sight. Soft and fluffy, Sherlock had the strangest urge to bury his face into John’s hair, and rub against it like a cat, purring with contentment.  
  
He pinched himself.  
  
Locking the unfamiliar feelings into a temporary box, he continued to peruse John’s movements. He noticed that John would roll his shoulders back, attempting to ease the aching muscles, no doubt acquired by mind-numbing sport of rugby. Sherlock made a mental note to experiment on different pain relievers and muscle relaxants next.  
  
John used his elbows to prop himself up onto the table, closer to the books, and out of Sherlock’s sight. Sherlock shuffled forward slightly, head leaning forwards as much as he could to keep John in sight, an invisible thread attaching Sherlock’s line of sight to John.  
  
There was a creak of the door. Sherlock immediately reared back, startled, trying to minimise the amount of noise, all the while assuring himself that Mycroft nor John had seen him.  
  
Sherlock was stock still, holding his breath, hoping that Mycroft wouldn’t have noticed – stupid, fat git that he was.  
  
He was in no such luck.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft called out, clearly under no illusion. “Do come out, it is bad manners to spy on people.”  
  
Sherlock cursed Mycroft’s big nose, only able to sniff out things out of the ordinary at the most inconvenient of times. Unless it was when the chef had made dessert: cake, or some kind of nauseatingly sweet confectionery.    
  
Sherlock padded into the room, nose up in the air, taking long strides whilst attempting to look as though he had merely been passing by the library. John turned to the watch Sherlock as he came in.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t fooling anybody.  
  
Mycroft’s eyebrows were low on his face, clearly disapproving of Sherlock’s antics.  John however, smiled at Sherlock when he came in, and pulled out a chair next to him.  
  
“Sorry I didn’t come over first,” John sheepishly ran his hand through his head. “It’s just that we have to finish this today. When Mycroft and I are done, we can go check out those samples of yours.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, slightly relieved that he hadn’t been called out. John gave him another quick smile, making Sherlock’s stomach do a little flip, and turned back to gaze at the work spread out on the table.  
  
They worked for another two hours, pausing for a quick break, and afternoon tea, which Mycroft took to his advantage to indulge a little. Whilst Mycroft had finished a horrifyingly large slice of cake, Sherlock started telling John about the newest experiment, and how it was going along so far.  
  
Then Mycroft and John resumed working. Sherlock propped his feet on the table, seated low on the chair, sulking. Each word written on a page was a tiny milestone to the end of their tedious collaboration. By his calculations, at the rate that Mycroft was putting his overlarge brain to use, and that John was working, they would finish soon. Provided, of course, that Mycroft hadn’t chosen this time to be an obnoxious perfectionist.  
  
With what seemed an age, John finally put his pen down, and Mycroft’s tapping of keys on his laptop ceased. Sherlock stood up, headed to the door.  
  
“Come, John,” Sherlock called, grateful to get out of the stuffy library that Mycroft seemed to reside in.  
  
He held the door open expectantly. John muttered something to Mycroft, to which Mycroft made a shooing motion.  
  
“I’ll finish it off. Go and entertain my brother.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, evidently resigned to the fact that Sherlock was stubborn enough to wait until he got his way.  
  
John shot a grateful smile at Mycroft and followed Sherlock up to his room.  
  
The two of them ended up spending the rest of the afternoon hunched over the microscope, talking about the results collected. As they examined the results, they would periodically giggle about something that Sherlock had unknowingly said, or that John had sarcastically replied to.  
  
It was well past sunset when they had finished with the data.  
  


***

 

Sherlock stood outside the stadium, huddled in his coat. The wind ruffled his curls, sweeping them into a mess that resembled something of a bird’s nest. The excited chattering grated on his ears, making him feel edgy and irritable. He was wondering if it had been a mistake to come to the game.  
  
Normally he wouldn’t have bothered: School events? They were a bore. However, the past month John’s mind had been preoccupied on the upcoming game, and he would regularly zone out when Sherlock was speaking. Personally, Sherlock did not see the interest of running around in a field full of idiots, trying to score the goal – he would much rather be in his laboratory – but he would try to see the appeal, if only for John.  
  
Sherlock stalked through the doors, parting the crowd with ease – it seemed as if they sensed his mood, crackling with irritability. The ticket was in his pocket, safe and protected. He had only managed to get a ticket last minute – one of the best seats – from Mycroft, whom had, after raising an eyebrow, and promising a favour, acquired a ticket with means that Sherlock did not wish to know.  
  
It was not common to find that Sherlock was going to a rugby game – in fact, this was the first time he had gone to one. John had invited him to several of his other games, but Sherlock had denied, finding it dreadfully tedious.  
  
Sherlock could feel a headache coming on swiftly, the pounding in his head in tune with the deafening cheers of the crowd as the players arrived onto the field. Though he was not as overly enthusiastic as the rest of the crowd, he felt himself craning his head to scan the field for John.  
  
His eyes were fixated on the entrance, and the players trickled in. As they waved at the crowd, a thundering cheer crackled through the air, easily amping up the enthusiasm. Sherlock’s mind was already automatically filtering the useless noise, focussing on finding John.  
  
Finally, John arrived, shooting a broad grin at the crowd that was going wild. He seemed relaxed, at ease with the environment, though Sherlock noted the telltale signs of John’s nervousness: the slight twitch of his jaw, hand running through his hair. An onlooker wouldn’t have been able to see it, but Sherlock was finely attuned to John’s movements – after all, John was his friend.  
  
The game started with high spirits, the air filled with frenetic energy. Cheers and boos were heard as the people supported their teams. The game was fast paced, being the finals, and the two teams were skilful in weaving in and out through the pitch.  
  
Sherlock, however, did not take time to admire this. Instead, his eyes were drawn to John as he sprinted across the field, barking orders at the rest of his team, supporting them. It was clear that their team dynamic was excellent, each member a part of a whole, the cogs and wheels of a machine.  
  
A sheen of sweat reflected off John’s flushed face, soaking through his shirt. The fabric clung to his body, showing off his sinewy, muscular build, which hid surprising strength. From the distance, Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the single droplet of sweat, slowly making its way down the length of John’s neck in a tantalising manner.  
  
It was as if Sherlock were suddenly thrust into a sauna, stifling hot and dry. His cheeks flushed, hands sweaty for some reason. As the droplet was soaked up by the rest of John’s shirt, his gaze switched to the ripple of muscles that contracted and relaxed as John ran across the field. Powerful calf muscles working to launch him forward, broad shoulders flexing as he swung his arms back and fro. Leonine strength, golden hair glinting in the sun, matted and ruffled up, coupled with a mix of adrenaline, it was almost a dichotomy to John’s gentle, patient nature, blue eyes bright with interest as he would gaze at Sherlock.  
  
It was a pity that Sherlock couldn’t see John’s eyes from where he was sitting – Sherlock was sure that they would be flashing with exhalation, a fevered intensity fuelled by the crowd’s energy. He had a notebook detailing John’s eyes, a study made when John was unaware of the subject, of being the subject. Blue, with a golden rim surrounding the black of the pupil, Sherlock could stare at them for hours. They would change according to his mood: a light, clear blue of a sunny sky when he was happy and content, a stormy navy of the seas when he was dark with fury.  
  
Sherlock had been cataloguing the spectrum of colours that John’s eyes changed to. He had done some research on eye colour, and was looking for patterns in genetics to predict the possibility of each colour.  
  
Sherlock reached up to unbutton the top button of his collar, finding it stifling in the stadium. Just watching John play was already making him feel the heat John was under, the pressure and the exertion. It was no wonder that John had to train every afternoon, to the annoyance of Sherlock.  
  
Rugby, group projects and studying – the tedium of school. All of it took up John’s time, leaving little for Sherlock. As Sherlock was reminded of the group project, he unconsciously raised his gaze to scan the crowd for Mycroft. Unlikely as it was, Mycroft could possibly have been here – John was his best friend, and he had to keep up appearances. The politics of school, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could already imagine Mycroft in a stuffy three piece suit, pristine and ironed to perfection. Mycroft would climb up the social ladder as a politician, or a government official with his overly large nose and ambition.  
  
A great whoop brought Sherlock out of his musings, eyes seeking out John. The crowd behind him was going crazy, screams and whistles echoing around the stadium. John’s team had won, and they were running around the pitch in victorious exuberance.  
  
Sherlock cast his mind back – he didn’t recall them getting any goals. Though that was probably because his focus had been on primarily John. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush red, as his subconscious conjured an image of John panting with effort, shirt thrown over his neck, revealing the toned, sun kissed body. Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a halt, before rebooting again, shaking his head as if to shoo away the unwanted thoughts.  
  
A strange feeling had overcome him – one that he had not experienced before. A mixture of longing, fondness, happiness and warmth poured into a beaker. Sherlock’s hands were steepled under his chin, as he tried to work out what it was. No matter, he envisaged putting a sample of the feelings into a box, and filed it away in his mind palace.  
  
The team received their trophy, took a few pictures, and retreated into the changing rooms. Sherlock turned to head towards the entrance of the changing rooms to wait for John, weaving through the pumped up crowd, bottles clinking together in celebration.  
  
As he got nearer the entrance, he sharpened his focus, timing it perfectly as he slipped through the door as the chaos of the crowd confused the staff. He found that with a sleight of the hand, or a well timed step, it was remarkably easy to get into high security places.  
  
He was promptly hit with the air, humid with steam as the boys took their time showering. Sherlock followed the signs to the lockers, peering around the next corner for John. Luckily, John was the only one by the lockers at the moment, in the process of putting on his shirt.  
  
Sherlock caught a glimpse of the golden, tanned skin, and a soft trail of hairs, before it was covered by John’s shirt. Sherlock felt a soft flutter of something in his stomach.  
  
“Hey,” Sherlock whispered, rapping his knuckles lightly on the metal locker door.  
  
John jumped, startled as he whipped back to face Sherlock.  
  
“Sherlock?” John hissed, glancing around. “What are you doing here? Only the team is supposed to be in here.”  
  
“It’s astoundingly easy to slip through security,” Sherlock muttered, waving his hand. “I came to see you. It was a good game, and–”  
  
“You actually came to watch the game?” John blurted out, eyes wide with incredulity.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock gave John a look, suggesting he was an idiot for asking. “Why else would I be here?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
John sheepishly ran his hand through his wet hair.  
  
“How was it then? Did you manage to follow the game?” John asked, as resumed packing, stuffing his towel and rugby uniform into his bag.  
  
“Good,” Sherlock nodded slightly.  
  
“Really?” John didn’t sound convinced.  
  
“Yeah, it was good.”  
  
“You didn’t get the game, did you?”  
  
John looked up at Sherlock, and shook his head, the tug of John’s lips betraying his amusement.  
  
“No, not really.”  
  
  
When the rest of the team had finished, they headed towards a small restaurant, tucked at the corner of one of the roads near the stadium. It was dimly lit, and on normal nights would have been a peaceful meal, had the rugby team not been in, rowdy and excitable.  
  
They should have been kicked out a long time ago, but it was all discounted for the fact that they had brought in a lot of other customers – fans of theirs, eating after the game.  
  
Ravenous from the work out, the team wolfed down their food, cleaning the plates in their hunger. It wasn’t long before drinks were called, and they were singing loudly and off tune to some pop song that Sherlock didn’t recognise.  
  
John had invited Sherlock along with their team, and a couple of friends and girlfriends of the team members had tagged along. Whilst John was chatting amiably with Lestrade, who sat on the other side of John, Sherlock was picking at his food. He didn’t particularly enjoy social situations, and had only come as John had asked him.  
  
He took the time to examine John, mentally taking note as John interacted with his fellow peers. John was well liked and well known in school, the boy that was friends with everyone, and liked by the teachers. The younger years admired and respected him, whilst the older years thought of him as a younger brother. Perhaps they could see that bright spark John held within him, often a hint of it glimmering in his eyes.  
  
John would be able get through school easily, and pave a path for himself. A doctor, a surgeon, a soldier – anything he wanted – though Sherlock had seen the brochures that John had scattered across his desk.  
  
Sherlock wondered where John would be in the future - would John still be by Sherlock’s side? Or rather, would Sherlock still be by John’s side? He could see John as the typical middle class man, married to a woman with three children. At that thought, he felt a pang at his heart. A swirl of sadness, longing, and anger mixed together, he realised with start that it was jealousy. He didn’t want John to be with someone else – he wanted to be the one that would make John happy, that would be by his side, the one that John came home to.  
  
He flushed yet again. These feelings… Sherlock wanted to be John’s… boyfriend. He tested the word out, finding he liked it, despite the juvenile connotations associated with it.  
  
“–You okay?” John asked, concerned, a hand rubbing at Sherlock’s back soothingly. “You haven’t said much today. Even managed not to insult Anderson.”  
  
Sherlock cracked a smile at that.  
  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock nodded, feeling a tingling trail of warmth as John lifted his hand from Sherlock’s back.  
  
John’s eyebrows drew together slightly, but he took Sherlock’s word for it, and took a swig out of his cup, patting Sherlock’s knee before leaning to talk to Lestrade again.  
  
It wasn’t long before the air was filled with boisterous laughter, slaps on backs, drinks up in the air. John and Sherlock left early, after saying goodbyes to the rest of the team. As they stepped out of the restaurant, they were hit with the cool, brumal air of the night.  
  
“Today was a good day…” John broke the silence, allowing his words to trail off.  
  
“Mhmm.”  
  
“Didn’t think we would come out on top. Nor did I think,” John took a quick glance at Sherlock. “That you would come.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply, allowing John to carry on. The leaves rustled as the wind slipped through their cracks, jostling them into motion. Street lamps were a yellowy orange, lighting the road, drawing long shadows in its wake.  
  
“Are you okay?” John’s hands were in his pockets, shoulders hunched up against the wind.  
  
Sherlock was silent, his hands drawn into fists in his coat pockets, trembling slightly. It would be a good time to ask John out – John was more likely to agree to Sherlock’s proposals when in a good mood, and today was definitely one of the best days –after winning the final match.  
  
“I – er –“ The words were lodged in Sherlock’s throat, unable to be uttered into the air between them.  
  
“Yeah?” John’s eyes were dark with concern, drawing closer to Sherlock slightly, their arms brushing as they walked.  
  
“Will you – will you,” Sherlock swallowed, trying to force the words out of his mouth. “Willyoubemyboyfriend?”  
  
John blinked several times. Then, a wide grin grew slowly on his face, and he threw his arms over Sherlock’s shoulder, engulfing Sherlock with warmth. Hard muscle was against Sherlock, despite the fluffy jumper John had donned.  
  
“Of course I will,” John’s voice was whispered into Sherlock’s ear.  
  
Sherlock felt an answering smile upon his face, and he drew his hands up to John’s back hovering above his jumper before reciprocating the hug.  
  
The two of them stood under the moonlight, painted silver, embracing. It was a while before they let go of each other, and walked hand in hand into the night, smiles adorning their faces.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
